Sleep-talking
by Johix
Summary: The Detective is ill and when John takes care of him it appears Sherlock talks in his sleep. (And then they have sex :D)


"Come on, John! We're losing him!"

. . .

Once again we were running through the streets of London, soaking up the life.

Even it was aggravating me, how Sherlock's disappearing from my view in every moment, then showing up round the corner for a second – just enough for me to catch a glimpse of him and follow –, jumping over fences like a fucking monkey, dodging cars, and many many other things that was not exactly... my area. But still I loved it; the feeling which it gave me. That rush of adrenalin.

After a long time of nothing, this case was like an atomic bomb for Sherlock's mind. Whole week he was completely absorbed by it and used his powers for nothing else. And even he did not sleep nor eat I still was pretty surprised – because denying of these two thing was his second nature and the body of his was more than used to it – when he suddenly stopped in the middle of a small, unknown street, leaning his back against the wall.

"I just..." he managed to utter between panting, "I need to... catch my breath..."

I turned at him in surprise: "_You _need to catch a-" but even before I could finish, Sherlock lowered his face into his hands: "John, my head," and then I just saw his tall figure how it's languorously falling to the ground. _Shit._

. . .

"John... John...?" Sherlock woke up. He's at home – fine. His bedroom – good. His voice was weak and quiet. He had a strange taste in his mouth and a spitting headache. He tried to sit up – bad idea. Rubbing his temples, trying to recall what happened, but the train of thoughts was cut: "Yes?" a simple question sounded from just opened door, and the medical man entered.

_John._

"You're awake? That's good," he said with a tone that Sherlock did not know yet – a professional tone – and walked closer to the bed. "Tell me, how do you feel: any pain, or blurred vision, or something?"

"No. Well... my head, but it will pass," Sherlock answered and tried to sit up again: "And what – ah!" he felt right back to the place – bad idea in deed.

"Easy, Sherlock. I have no need of trying to bring you around again."

"Chm," Sherlock smiled faintly, pressed his lips together and licked them from inside, "you've been giving me an artificial respiration?"

"I'd rather not comment this."

"Fine," Holmes shrugged his shoulders and laughed (very slightly, given his condition, but genuinely) with an amused look in his eyes.

John glanced at him and his mouth corners immediately twisted up – he could not help but laugh too. Then he walked around the bed to Sherlock's side and before the Detective could somehow protest, John placed his hand on his hot forehead. The ill man said nothing, but the Doctor felt how he puckered his brows as if to s_ay: Seriously, John?_

"Good," he said, putting his hand back, "the temperature is lower. Do you think t-"

"Sit down. You're making me nervous," Sherlock spat suddenly. The head of his was killing him and the effort to concentrate on John, who was standing by his bed like some of those _doctors_ with their piffles, when once or twice Mycroft took him to a hospital to understand how cocaine's bad for his body, but naturally it had no effect. Maybe it even supported him in it.

And all this probably dawned upon John – who would, under other circumstances, disobeyed – for he glanced around and when he found out that there was no place for him to sit, he carefully settled on the corner of Sherlock's bed.

"Tell me," the Detective started before the Doctor could continue, "the case... is it... is-"

"It's over," John interrupted him to not unnecessary tire himself, "Lestrade got a tip, but when they arrived, he was already dead – suicide."

"Damn it!" Sherlock banged his head into the pillow, and frowned at the sudden spasm of pain, caused by that quick motion.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to restore his equilibrium: "How long I've been...? Mm... you know..."

"Two days."

"Ugh," Sherlock growled and turned his head away in disgust.

"You've lost conscious from exhaustion, Sherlock."

"Nonsense. I've been just a little-"

"_What?_" John uttered more bitterly then he wanted to, "You did not eat or sleep the last week, even I've told you-"

"I did eat something."

"If you think that chewing a nicotine gum is sufficient nourishment, then fine!" he placed his hand flat across his face (_If you just have a slightest idea of how I felt, Sherlock. How it scared me. And how, for the briefest moment, there was the terrible idea that maybe you will not come round again.) _and stayed silent.

"John," Sherlock said with a calm voice (_I'm sorry)_. He would probably argue, but this time he knew that his friend was right.

"Doesn't matter," the Doctor sighed, "We all know you're hopeless," and got up. "I'll make you some black tea. It will help the head ache."

"Why not some pills?"

John raised his eyebrows: "I presume that you will not eat in the coming time...?"

"Right. So...?"

"_So?_" John wondered, "Swallowing pills on an empty stomach? No – bad idea. You'd throw them up immediately. Tea will do."

"...A strong one then, thanks."

. . .

"I must tell," said Sherlock, when John handed him a cup, "that... I'm surprised you... haven't," even that Sherlock felt like speaking, the condition of his could not permit him to do so, and he started to cough... After a while he forced his tongue to play along with him and managed a few words: "Took me to-"

"A hospital?" John finished for him.

Sherlock only nodded and sipped his tea.

Watson smiled faintly: "Because you would strangle me with a flex of anaesthetic machine – I know you. (...) And moreover, I've seen and took care of much worse, so I thought I could manage. And, as it appeared, I can."

"Hm, I see," the Detective mumbled pensively, "But I think," his face suddenly lit up, "that attempt to drown you by a drip-feed would be more interesting."

"Ha-ha," John responded sarcastically, "you should get some sleep."

"Of course," Sherlock laid back and closed his eyes without any more words.

The Doctor took it as a sign for him to leave, and crossed to the door. But when he was opening it, Sherlock stopped him by quiet uttering of his name: "John?"

"Hm?"

"Thank you... for..." and what started as a nice appreciation of John's care and loyalty, ended in a typical Holmes' way: "for the tea."

But for John, it was something he could hold dear, because he knew that Sherlock exhibits his feelings – if he even had some – differently. Yes, perhaps it would be more pleasing for him to hear: _Thank you, John. Thanks you haven't let me there to die because of my own stupidity. You were right. I owe you my life and I am immensely happy to be your friend. _But that was just not possible.

"You're welcome," he replied and left.

_Blast it! _Thought Sherlock, _Why couldn't I just tell him?_

. . .

"_Jesus Christ!" _John whined, "I've told you not to take pills unless you eat something," he was aware that Sherlock's an idiot, but he would not expect that such a big one, "haven't I?"

An unclear _yeah _sounded from the bathroom, followed by a very unpleasant sound.

"...Except my head..." but the sentence remained unfinished.

The Detective kept the toilet bowl company for a moment, then washed his face, and walked to the living room.

"It hurts so much?" his friend asked him, referring to that previous incomplete excuse of his.

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed with an exhausted expression.

"Then take a rest and when you'll feel up, try to eat something. After that you can take a pill."

"Fine."

. . .

"I'm making toasts, would you like one?"

"If that means I could take some pills, then yes," was a response from the ill men, who was now sitting in his armchair, wrapped in a blanket, which was usually draped over John's seat.

"Here you go," John passed him a plate with one toast (without jam or butter of course).

"Thanks."

Sherlock bit a tiny peace and started to roll it around in his mouth.

"So," he swallowed and turned to John: "who's at work instead of you?"

"They can handle without me for a couple of days. I've agreed with Sarah."

"Hm,"

"But I don't regret. It's been interesting sometimes, you know?"

"What... do you mean?"

"Chm," John smiled and cast his eyes down, "you talk in your sleep – and pretty loud, when it comes to it."

"I do not."

"Oh, you do." _You would be surprised._

"What did I say?"

John laughed: "Many things."

"..."

"But my favourite was about the oyster."

"_Oyster?_"

"Yes," John really had to try hard not to burst out laughing, "You've said... you've _actually_ said that you can't see why there's so little of oyster, and... and that you don't understand – if they literally do nothing more than reproduce – why the ocean is not full of them."

"I did?"

"Uh-hu," the Doctor nodded cheerfully.

"Well..." a mischievous, but gentle smile appeared on Holmes' face: "if you think of it... it actually makes some sense..."

And after he said that, John nearly fell out of his seat.

Oh, how Sherlock loved to see him laugh.

Watson wiped a tear from his eye and turned to his friend: "Don't do this to me, Sherlock. I really did think you're getting mad."

"Well, I think I maybe am mad, when I decided to eat this toast." All of sudden his face turned into a very sick colour and he briskly stood up: "Excuse me..."

"Should I hold your hair?" John called after him, joking.

. . .

"_What you think you're you doing?_" John sternly raised his brows.

The addressed man did not even look up, just seized his cup and after he took a gulp, he answered disinterestedly: "What does it look like?"

"_For goodness'_– don't mess with me, Sherlock!" the Doctor crossed to him and grabbed the laptop from his hands. "Get back to bed. Now."

"Seriously, John I-"

"March!"

"_Fine..._" he got up.

"I _don't_ need an escort, John. I _can_ manage to bedroom on my own – thanks," Sherlock let fly at his friend, who seemed he's going with him.

"...I just want to make sure you'll stay in bed," John finished the sentence exactly when they came there.

"Pf, you'd have to use force to make me. And we both know... that it would not work, for I am much stronger."

"Oh _really_?"

"Yeah, because y-"

But he was not allowed to continue; before he could finish the word, there was a strong clasp on his arm, and he just realized how John threw him onto the bed, and how he's now above him, standing on his knees, astride over him. It made Sherlock to feel strange and... vulnerable, and yet to think about what it would be, if he'd pull John closer, run his fingers through that irresistible fair hair, taste the soft skin that hid his collarbones, kiss him like no one ever did before, and change their position while they'd be stripping each other, kissing, then rocking... gasping... moaning... and ...

"Get off, John." He said it with a firm, calm voice, but in his eyes there was a glimmer of agitation.

John immediately loosed his grip, "Yes," and got down from the bed. "Sorry."

"At least, you see," he laughed nervously, "that I'm strong enough to... well..."

"Get me into bed," Sherlock mumbled inaudibly.

"What?"

"Nothing," replied the upset man curtly. "Please, leave now."

"Yeah, sure."

_Shit._

. . .

The Detective felt better now. But he was still sick and the headache did not pass. It only was a little bit worse or a little bit better – this night it woke him up.

He staggered out of the bed and blindly went to the kitchen. Well, not so blindly, for he had developed the power to see in the dark quite sufficiently to not have to switch on the light, so it was not such a hard think for him to notice that someone was sitting on the sofa.

"John?" He'd probably make a longer question, but the head of his was like an apple stabbed by nails, which sank deeper with every single word.

"Mmm...? Yeah, it's me. What... what are you doing here, Sherlock?"

The ill man swallowed a painkiller and focused on the dark shape, gradually changing into an unclear silhouette of his friend. "I can ask the same thing."

"Well," John yawned, "I fell asleep on the couch, then – about two hours ago – you woke me up by your somniloquy, and then I got off again... And now you're here. Your head hurts?"

"Yes."

"Have you-"

"Yes, I've eaten something."

"Fine." John stood up and turned on the lamp next to the sofa. "...You don't seem well," he said to the man, who was now frowning because of the sudden supply of light. "Here," he handed him a thermometer.

Sherlock took it and give him a look of disbelief: "Why don't you use your hand?"

"Because I want to know the precise temperature." The answer was larded with doctoral manners, and sounded awfully to Holmes' ears.

"Hm," Sherlock only nodded and sat on the couch, giving the thermometer under his armpit. He had no strength to argue with John right now...

"So? How much is it?" asked John, when about five minutes passed.

"Thirty-eight and a bit."

"So... well, a compress, tea and – you've already taken the pill, haven't you?"

"I-"

"Ya, you did."

"John?"

"Mm?"

"Easy."

. . .

"Here you go," said the Doctor, placing a wet cloth on Sherlock's sweaty forehead.

He was used to take care of people. And he always put his heart into it. But with Holmes... it was somehow... different. Maybe it was because he never did actually take care of someone at home, or maybe because he finally had got a proof that his flatmate is also only a human, or maybe because he never saw him this way, or _maybe _many things, but the startling _fact_ was, how he felt the urgent need to lay Sherlock's head on his lap, caress him, kiss him on the forehead, on the lips, tell him that everything is going to be fine, for he's here with him, and hold him close under the cover – in warmth – even though he could also become sick. (...) Maybe he put a bit much of his heart into this case...

"Thanks," the ill man sighed and closed his eyes, pleased by the feeling that the cool compress was giving him.

When Watson ended his job, he wanted to leave, but Sherlock grabbed his wrist and with two fingers of his other hand, he tapped on the free place on his bed: "Tell me what I said."

"What...what do you mean?" wondered the medical man.

"The sleep-talking, John."

"Ah, yes. Well..." he paused and smiled as he abruptly remembered the _Night speech of Sherlock Holmes _(that was how he would call that if he'd add it to his blog). Then he settled down onto the bed corner.

"It was not so much as last time," he started (In truth it was far more), "But there was some... interesting parts."

"For example?"

For example the part how you were saying that '_John... most likely the only person... ever... was attracted to._' Or '_I think... I could...that I do... maybe... him_.'

"For example: you quarrelled with Mycroft over some purple umbrella," John laughed, "and he obviously won."

"Aha... And?"

"Well, something about... otters and hedgehogs, but I did not get that."

"Hm, I see. You can go now."

"How very magnanimous of you, my dear friend," John scoffed – but he meant no harm – and left Sherlock in his chambers.

. . .

"Morning," said the Doctor, when he walked down from his room, heading to their shared bathroom.

"Morning, John," greeted him his flatmate, who was already up, drinking coffee in his armchair with a dressing gown draped over his shoulders.

"You feel better?"

"Better, yes."

. . .

"What's this?" was heard from the kitchen, when John did his way there.

"Your breakfast."

"Aha, I see... but why? And... _how_?"

"I can cook a couple of eggs," Holmes retorted as if by talking about something he did for someone else he was exceedingly offended.

John smiled: "Indeed you do. Thank you, Sherlock."

"You're welcome," he mumbled through the coffee.

. . .

"Well, I think I can go to work today – since you're better..."

Sherlock remained silence. _No, please do not go there. I surprisingly like to spent time with you._

"But," continued John (he was glad that Sherlock's feeling better, but somehow he wished he could stay at home with him for a few more days), "I can stay of course, if you'd-"

The Detective suddenly coughed – pretty badly. (Sure he was pretending it – more or less –, for he wanted his friend to stay, but his distorted pride did not let him to make a proper voicing.)

"That speaks for itself," John quitted the decision making; "I'm staying."

A great relief came to them both.

. . .

"_John... John...!" _

As soon as Watson heard his name from Sherlock's bedroom, he stood there: "Yes? What is... it...?" but during the first two words, he realized that Holmes was sleeping. He talked from his sleep again.

John slowly and quietly walked to the bed and sat down on it. Watching his flatmate with a smile upon his face, thinking about what would it be to wake up next to this amazing man.

"John...I..." Sherlock stirred under the cover.

Watson held his breath.

"...love you... John – you..."

"I love you too," he whispered as quietly as he could. Then overcame the need to stroke Sherlock's hair and press a kiss on his drowsily parted lips, and walked off the room.

. . .

"Yesterday," the not-so-ill-now man said in a low voice, while he was sitting on one side of the couch, his knees under his chin, and his friend, who was reading, on the other, "I was not sleeping."

"Huh? What?" John peered out from behind his book.

"When you came to my bedroom," Sherlock started to expand, "I wasn't sleeping."

But his flatmate seemed like he had not the slightest idea of what he was talking about: "You... what?"

Sherlock, whose eyes were fixed on the ground until now, suddenly looked straight at him: "You've said you love me."

"No I..." John certainly knew what Sherlock had in mind, but how does he mean 'not sleeping'? Do not tell him that – oh, shit! That bloody, clever, bastard! That is not fair! "I did _not_. No," he squirmed, "You've must had some dream, Sherlock," and started to read again.

"Aah, so a dream you say?..." Holmes said with mellifluous voice and set on his knees. Then he put his hands in the middle of sofa, stretching forward to the man who set on the right end of it, making position like a cat on all four, purring into his very ear: "I know it was rude from me, John. I'm sorry..."

The Doctor made no response. But he felt like his heart consumed all the oxygen, and was exploding now, trying to push its way up through his throat...

"You've already read this one." Sherlock's delicate, pale fingers took the book from him and he was forced to look at the Detective. At the sinewy stretched arms, the thin long neck, supporting the head, covered with those gorgeous dark curls, setting up the white skin that matched the silver colour of his sparkling eyes, and that mouth, oh those murderous lips, soft and beautiful like a petal of a tea rose, and God, so kissable!

"Do it, John."

He tardily, almost with indistinct speed, leaned to Sherlock.

"Please, do it," the Detective licked his lips and tilted closer.

John pressed his forehead against Sherlock's and waited. Breathing deeply – his breath becoming hotter and tremulous. Their noses touched and he slowly, carefully, with the most caution, pressed their lips together.

A single gentle kiss filled the whole room and become the time and space for two men, who shared it.

Sherlock was so enchanted by it at the first moment, that he forgot at least about fifty types of tobacco ash. But then remember it again, and found John's lips once more.

"_Amazing_," he breathed when Watson pulled away, and – in all probability – he took it right out of his mouth.

John grinned and glanced at his friend with the most sincere look in his eyes: "So... you're feeling better now I guess...?"

"Absolutely."

. . .

"May I sleep with you tonight, then?" he asked him frankly as it related to his character.

Holmes answered him briefly and with dispassionate voice as always: "Sure."

"Fine," John smiled and the Detective followed his example.

. . .

"But I must warn you," said Sherlock, when they were in his bedroom, lying in his very bed, "I do sprawl and I'm wont to steal the duvet for myself."

"I don't do any of this – it will do," John replied, "And if I'd be cold I'll cling to you," and snuggled up to his flatmate.

The almost-healthy-man-now smiled at that, and then closed his eyes in delight, for the Doctor just tickled him by his lips on the nape. _More_ he though and probably had to say it out loud, because John lift himself slightly up, and leaning on his elbow, he started to kiss Sherlock's neck as if it wouldn't be there at the morning.

"Mmm," mumbled the Detective and ruffled the short fair hair of a man above him.

"You like it, don't you?" John smirked and tenderly bit Sherlock's earlobe.

"Yes," he breathed.

"Me too," John smiled roguishly and kissed his flatmate on the lips, and with left hand he caressed Sherlock's side from the hip, over the place where the pelvic bone stuck out, to the ribs.

. . .

"No, John. Not... tonight," he managed to answer to one of the simplest questions in the world. _I'm not ready for this yet._

A gentle look appeared on Watson's face: "That's okay," he breathed and glanced down. "But this won't do. I'll take care of it for us both," he said and while he bent over to kiss his flatmate and cover his ear up with a hot breath, he skilfully slid his hand down. First into Holmes' pants, then into his own, and then he pinned their hardened cocks together, giving them a generous stroke by only one of his hands.

"Ah," he gasped, and contentedly watched Sherlock how he closed his eyes, overwhelmed with pleasure, and leaned his head backwards – stretching out his neck – with slightly opened mouth, letting out a noiseless moan. John continued, and in a no time Sherlock started to buck slightly upwards with every single stroke. "_Ah... John,_" he gasped and met Watson's eyes, "_faster._" The Doctor did what he wanted and the reward of his was a deep, obscene groan from Sherlock's splendorous mouth.

"God, Sherlock... you're fantastic," John whispered desirously into the Detective's ear.

"Ha," Holmes uttered, trying to catch enough breath to continue, "what a titbit..."

It cannot be said that John hated or loved that sarcastic side of his flatmate, he just somehow knew it, get used to it, and fixed it basically as a good thing, for it brought Sherlock to his mind. So he just smiled at that remark and crushed his lips to Sherlock's to better shut him up.

A few more strokes, a few more thrusts, kisses and moans, a few more feeling of loosing senses, and it was enough for them both.

The fair-haired man rolled on his side, breathing out with contentment.

"I think I need a shower," the happiest-Holmes-ever man said, panting, and looked questioningly at his blogger.

"Yeah, me too," John confirmed and wearily sat himself up.

"Together?"

John laughed: "If you'll carry me..."


End file.
